


All Tied Up with a Pretty Red Bow

by Lizardlicks



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, Bulges and Nooks, Distrait!verse, Drunk Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:59:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5862847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizardlicks/pseuds/Lizardlicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat invents some non-standard uses for imperial event sanctioned uniforms.  Eridan discovers he's still got some hidden kinks.  Set in faithbegetsfaith's series <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/38968"> A Distrait Life of Mistakes</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Tied Up with a Pretty Red Bow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [temporalDecay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY FELLOW ERIKAR TRASH, FAITHBEGETSFAITH AKA FI. It's a week late and about 3k longer than I was planning. Sorry, not sorry.

About the third time the button refuses to go into the hole you are ready to rip it off and throw it across the room.  It’s only when Karkat’s small, warm hands close delicately over your own that you realize the problem isn’t the button.  It’s the fact that your hands are trembling.  You let them drop away, and he takes over, settling the remaining buttons into place, one, two, three, just like that.  When he’s finished his fingers linger, tracing slowly over the scarlet trim around the collar.  He flattens his palms against either side of your chest, smoothing the fabric underneath.  You can’t help it; you bring your hands back up to scoop his to your lips where you can kiss his knuckles.  There’s no way he didn’t feel your bloodpusher thumping just a little too fast, too hard. 

You’re successfully decorated head-to-toe in crisp white, trimmed with his scarlet, and the sash around your waist is red too, but the waistcoat comes up just enough to let the purple of your shirt peek through.  It’s been so long since you wore anything with that much of your color. The implications are dizzying.   

Karkat got similar treatment, but he’s got more braid, and piping, and fuckin’ _epaulettes_ , you know he hates those.  There’s honors and medals pinned in neat rows to his breast and much more gold and flashing bits than you, but that’s how it should be given his title.  He pulls the whole look off though, and damn if it isn’t a nice look.  The uniform hugs him in expert lines and shows off enough to make you want to get a better look at what’s underneath, even though you already know.

“Fuck everythin’ about these over complicated wastes of imperial tailors’ time an’ money,” you grumble just for something to complain about.  The longer you stand around and fuss with things, the more your own nerves start to get to you. 

“Yeah, they’re terrible.  We should just take them off.”  His eyebrows dance while you both snicker at his silly flirting, and a little tension leaks out of your back.  Then more seriously he tells you,  “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” you assure him, and it’s true.  Mostly true.  Yes, it’s possible you may just curl up and combust from the sheer mortification of everyone in Feferi’s court staring at you and whispering behind their hands, and true, you are just the teensiest bit absolutely, pants-shittingly terrified of fucking up something irrevocably and dragging Karkat down into the muck with you, but hey, that’s the worst that could happen right? (Wrong.  You know that’s wrong, you can fuck up an infinite number of ways.)  Still.  “I want to be there with you.”

You want more than anything to walk into the room beside your matesprit, arm-in-arm, uniforms matched.  You want everyone to stare in open awe and maybe a little bit in jealously because you have the finest piece of flush in the whole known galaxy laying claim to your quadrant, and it’s not the least bit because of his title.  You want to be good enough that he wants that too.  The notion that maybe he doesn’t flits through your pan faster than you can catch it to lock it away, and your digestion sac picks that moment to slink down into your shoes and huddle there. 

“Do you...” you have to stop to swallow, “want to do this?” 

“Fuck no,” Karkat scowls, briefly, but it smoothes over at your flinch.  He lets go of your hands and cups your face, brushing the lines of your cheekbones with his thumbs.  “I want to stay in my block with my matespit, and use his dumb sash to tie him up, and fuck him into the platform until he’s putty-” the most undignified noise escapes you, which he graciously ignores-  “but I gotta put up with this semi-annual parade of intergalactic stupidity instead.  If I have to do that, I’d rather have you with me keeping me sane.” 

You lick your lips, mouth gone suddenly dry.  “Can we, uh... do that thing you just mentioned with the sash later?” 

He grins.  “Hell fucking yes.”

 

* * *

 

 

All in all, things don’t go nearly as badly as you had (expected) feared.  That isn’t to say things didn’t go badly, but they went to sort of badly that happens to any party where there is a lot of food, booze, and very old hatefriends trying to one up each other.  It’s only a sort of regular thing, but this one is a centennial to boot, so there are more people here than you have ever seen stuffed elbow room only into one hall.  And it is a very, very large hall, so that’s quite a feat. 

Lords and Ladies preen, flaunt, and play power games, while the staff keeps everything moving effortlessly and without notice.  You notice of course, as it’s your job.  You can stop doing the work for one reason or another when it’s necessary, but you can never really leave it behind.  The efficiency is tight, which you expect, given who’s in charge.

You stay glued to Karkat’s side as well as you can manage.  Only let slip a strangled “eep!” when Makara somehow slips up behind you both _completely unnoticed_ and claps you on the shoulder.  His overgrown paw lingers there just a couple seconds longer than what would be considered a normal, friendly greeting, and you know he’s got some meaning behind it, but you can’t tell if it’s a threat or just Gamzee forgetting about things like social niceties.   

Then he laughs and ruffles Karkat’s hair with a jovial, “have fun, bro,” that earns him a growl and a swat before he swaggers off into the crowd.  You don’t see him the rest of the night.  You can not for the life of you decide if that’s a good thing.

There are speeches for miles.  Toasts go up so often you think your arm is going to fall off at the shoulder by the end of the event.  Karkat has to leave you long enough to stomp his way up to the podium so he can simultaneously charm and backhandedly insult every person in the room.  It’s a thousand times more skilled and practiced than the early shit fits he used to throw as a wiggler.  You toast him extra high for that, and toss back your drink in one motion, crass though it may be.  Fef and the rest of the empire is footing the bill, you’ll be as crass as you damn well please with the booze.  You might need it before the end is in sight.  Already the warmth coiling pleasantly in your gut is smothering all your nervous energy under something blank and numbing. 

Needling Equius is fun until Nepeta gets cuddly, and there goes your pitch wriggly, moirail blocked.  By then someone has pressed your third flute of champagne into your grasp, and you have moved from sipping to graceless slurping, and playing grabass whenever Karkat isn’t paying enough attention.  Somewhere around the fourth, Sollux has appeared to join in, from where you don’t know.  The only thing you do know is that Karkat is leaning heavily into you side, a tiny fire brand all wrapped around you, and Sollux is sort of slopped across your lap to paw at him.  You end up inadvertently elbowing Sollux twice.  The rest of the times were entirely on purpose, and the bony bastard kind of hurts.  Fuckin’ disgrace. 

Karkat, dearest angry muffin that he is, is still doing his level-headed best to accept envoys from one lord or lady or another with something close to tact before telling them is as few words as possible to fuck off.  By the time you tip the fourth glass back and lament to find it dry, they’ve all opted to give you a wider berth and some breathing room.   You never thought you’d ache this bad for corridors, and catwalks, and a little peace. 

The food is delicious, a wonderful distraction.  You eat your body weight and half again in it, then ponder briefly if you can bribe someone to package you up some leftovers before some blessed creature distracts you again by sliding dessert under your nose.  Wine shows up in the absence of champagne. Rich, ruby red that sets a whole new volley of thoughts spiraling around in your pan.  You dip one digit in it delicately, and run your finger along the rim, fins twitching at the ghostly song the glass makes.  Karkat coughs pointedly.  You look down to see him blushing and grin with all your fangs.

 

* * *

 

 

Between then and the point where you find yourselves lurching drunkenly down the hallway time goes kind of funny.  It’s all snatches of faces, voices, and words that don’t mean anything so important as right here and now, with Karkat giggling into your gills as he sloppily mouths a ring.  Your jacket is gone.  You sort of remember taking it off a few minutes ago because you were hot, and that was also the same reason you unbuttoned the shirt.  Right now you want to climb out of the rest of it and get Karkat to do to your nook what he’s doing to your side with his tongue. 

One of his nubby fangs catches and tugs on a ring, and drops a white hot bolt of _oh god, yes!_ straight into your groin like a ten ton weight.  Your already wobbly legs slow motion slide out from under you, dumping you sprawled across the hall in a boneless heap, and Karkat goes down right on top with a yelp.  He somehow knocks the wind out of you, and you spend the next few seconds too giddy and dizzy to do anything more than grin at the ceiling and purr.  Your bulge is completely unsheathed and coiling in a tight, slick knot.  These perfect, pristine pants are going to be ruined.  You don’t care. 

Karkat rolls off you, and onto his feet without too much stumbling, then holds out his hands.  “Do you need a moment or can we actually move this to the respiteblock?”

“You could always pail me right here.”  To punctuate the suggestion, you spread your legs a little wider, and half lift your hips.  Karkat looks considering for about a second. 

“What if someone comes down the hall?” 

Your smile curls.  “They can watch.” 

“Oh my god,” his hand smacks right into his forehead loud enough that _you_ felt it, “how did I end up with fucking voyeurs in all my quadrants.” 

“Must be some kind a fetish.” 

“Don’t you even,” he warns, but he’s smiling.  Then he reaches down and tugs playfully at your sash, making your bulge sit up in attention.  “I had a different kink in mind anyway.” 

Suddenly you remember exactly what he promised to do with that sash, and the cold, hard floor no longer has any appeal.  You even end up on both feet mostly under your own power.  The wall helps a little. 

You somehow navigate the whole rest of the way back to your ship without getting hilariously lost or falling down once.  Close calls don’t count.  Once your feet are back on familiar ground the rest of the way is muscle memory.  The Leviathan isn’t the biggest ship in the fleet, but it’s still massive, and you still know and love every square inch.  There isn’t so much as a dust mote that hasn’t been personally inspected by you.  There’s a shortcut through a maintenance hatch that drops you only a few yards from the door to your shared quarters, and you arrive there so fast that Karkat blinks at the way reality has reordered itself for you while you smirk. 

He’s back in control when the door slides shut behind you, grabbing bunches of your shirt in his fists, and pulling you down to his level to kiss and lick your mouth until you yield with a whimper.  Then he starts to walk forward, forcing you to back up.  You’re so focused on the act of not tripping over your own two stupid walkstubs that you don’t notice the pailing platform.  Not until it hits you square in the back of your legs and Karkat tips you to sprawl across it.  This is fine, you weren’t really feeling like controlling your limbs much longer anyway.

Your bulge hurts, your nook is still empty, and it is the most tantalizing thing you have ever seen when Karkat yanks open the top two buttons of his coat with a growl, sending the glittering gold buttons plinking off into nowhere. 

“Oops.” 

“If you lose those to the abyss, I ain’t orderin’ more of them.” 

“Oh noooo,” he pulls, and pops another button free, “I guess this jacket is ruined, and I’ll never be able to wear it again.”  Karkat removes it entirely, tosses it across the room, then starts to work the under shirt off too. You leer appreciatively.  There is really no other way to look at your matesprit right now.  He’s nearly as naked as you, and all flushed and rumpled from a night of too much talking and wine.  He looks so perfect you could watch all night while he did whatever he pleased and it would be enough.  A thrilled little voice is tickling the back of your pan, telling you that’s what the plan is anyway. 

“Hey,” he breaks your concentration on him by nudging your leg with a knee.  “This is just a suggestion, but things might go better if you lose the pants.”

You lift your hips obligingly and smile.   

The block isn’t cold, not when it’s set to accommodate Karkat’s body temperature, but you shiver when you’re naked anyway.  Karkat straddles your chest, not low enough down for your eager mating bits to get any satisfaction, but not high enough up for you give some attention to his bulge either.  You whine pitifully, but he shushes you.  

He takes your hands and cradles them so tender, aching flush in his. He presses a kiss to the pulse in each wrist before pushing them back up over your head and against the metal bar there.  The one you had put there for just this sort of thing.  That familiar input makes your pusher rate spike, and your whole body twitch in eager anticipation.  Karkat smiles, kind and cruel at once.  You can feel the way he pities you like a radiation burn.  He could break you, effortlessly, easily, he could gut you right here, and you would let him and love him for it.  He knows it, and it makes him hurt.

Karkat takes his time with you.  You can feel him winding the silk material of the sash around your arms, back and forth in crosses.  It’s a lot more complex than you were expecting, but when you try to tilt your head back to see it, he stops you with a kiss, and you’re good and distracted for the next couple of minutes exploring all the lovely features of his mouth.

“Wait till I’m done,” he murmurs close against your lips, and you nod, bumping your nose against his.  It’s easy enough to forget and just watch him work.  You study the way his brow creases and how he tucks his lower lip in under his teeth while he’s focused really hard on something.  You try to carve this moment into your memory, just in case the haze of a hangover tries to steal it away next wake cycle.  When he’s finished, he sits back to eye his work critically.  You finally look too. 

You were not expecting Karkat to create something so... _intricate_.  The sash loops back over itself in a series of knots, forming diamond patterns over your skin, and the ends are tied off with a simple pull release.  It’s gorgeous.

“You’ve been practicing,” you say, something hot and over-full swelling in your chest.  Your pusher is going to rupture and you will die of love.  He practiced this for _you_. 

“I... yeah.”  A dark blush is forming over the high points of his cheeks.  You want so badly to kiss him again.  “How’s it feel?”

You clench your hands into fists a couple times, flex your wrist and feel the slide of your own muscles and tendons in relief to the soft but sure grip.  “Could be tighter,” you joke. 

Karkat’s reprimand is to seize your right horn and push his thumb into the bed.  You gasp, vision wobbling against the sudden sharp throb that travels down your whole body.  You would close your eyes against it, but then you couldn’t see him or his look of equal parts fear and affection.  He switches to stroking in gentle, circular motions, and you chirr softly in the back of your throat for him.   

“I mean it, idiot, I don’t want to have to call a mediculler to amputate your arms because you were underestimating the actual damage.”

“It’s good,” you reassure him.  “It feels good.  I feel really good. I wanna make you feel good too.”  He swallows.  You watch his throat work, the way he inhales, sudden, soft, trying to downplay his own arousal (it doesn’t work, not when you can see the way his bugle flicks and curls at your words). 

He says, “Okay,” so soft like he’s afraid he’s going to break something, and walks forward on his knees, using one hand to pin his squirming bulge against his belly.  The other still hasn’t let go of your horn.  He uses it to guide you. 

Karkat’s nook is hot - not warm like the surface of his skin, but burning, internal temperature hot.  He jumps at the first touch of your tongue, even though he should have been expecting it, but he doesn’t let you pull away.  Not that you’d want to.  He’s hot and slick, and the heavy musk of him is invading all of your senses this close.  The taste of him is heaven.  He sighs as you lick against him slow, taking your time, and after the first couple times he starts rolling his hips against it.  An insistent tug at your horn encourages you to go deeper, so you do.

He’s not just sighing now, but gasping in tiny little hitches, swearing, and uttering a soft, “aaah..!” every time you do something right.  Your pusher is thunder in your chest, pounding through your head, and your nook, and your bulge, pulsing black on the edge of your vision as you press in as deep as you can and devour Karkat’s nook.  The sweet nectar center of him shivers, and he moans so nice, real loud this time, so you do it again.  His grip on your horn tightens, and then he actually starts to really _move_ .  He’s fucking himself on your tongue, you realize, and god, _god_ if that isn’t the hottest thing you have witnessed.  You do everything in your power to keep up. 

Your matesprit whines, hisses, “Fuck!  Oh fuck, oh god, Eridan!”  In the next moment you can’t breath.  There’s so much of him, you try your best to lap, and swallow, and suck, but you could never take it all.  Your jaw hurts, your lungs burn and your head spins, and when the black in the corners of your eyes starts sparkling white you come hard without anything having touched you and lose sight completely. 

The sparkles are still floating around when you become aware enough again to feel Karkat patting your face.  He’s calling your name in a voice that trembles with a frantic edge.  “Eridan.  Eridan, babe, talk to me, holy shit!” 

“Wow,” is the first thing you manage to wheeze.  Your whole face hurts but that doesn’t stop you from grinning.  “I uh... think I just found a new kink.” 

Karkat snorts.  “Come here, you disaster,” he purrs and pulls you up right- you’re surprised to see the sash is gone, you didn’t notice him untying it.  You didn’t see where he got the towel from either, but he’s produced one from somewhere and is gently cleaning you up with it.  That’s good, because you are entirely too out of it to manage the task yourself.  You just pull him into your lap and curl your whole body around him.  You want to tell him how good that was, how nice he’s still making you feel, but words are beyond you, so you chirp and purr instead, loud as you can.

Karkat replaces the towel with kisses down your jaw.  “Think you can make it to coon?” 

“Not even a little bit, but I’ll try anyway.” 

“Good, because I’m not sleeping in slurry,” he says, then cracks a yawn right after.  He stays wrapped in a perfect ball around your torso as you climb to your feet and slog one whole meter to your ‘coon to tip yourselves in together.

“Flushed for you, Kar,” you whisper right against one perfect nub horn, cherishing the way it makes him shudder. 

“So flushed for you it hurts, Eridan.”  You feel the all-over ache centered in your chest and you know.

 


End file.
